Hot Mess
by thermodynamic
Summary: Tio Luis couldn't resemble James Dean less, with his dark eyes and hair and skin, but he's sure got the attitude down cold, and Tim wonders when he'll stop feeling like a kid in his daddy's clothes around him.


"Your mama's a real bitch, Timmy— though that's a synonym for white broad," Tío Luis says from the back of the pickup, raising his Captain Morgan bottle to his lips and chugging as if he won't see tomorrow. He couldn't resemble James Dean less, with his dark eyes and hair and skin, but he's sure got the attitude down cold, and Tim wonders when he'll stop feeling like a kid in his daddy's clothes around him. "Thinks we're bad influences, gonna get y'all locked up. Can you fuckin' imagine that?"

The way he stares at him makes it clear that this is another challenge, another test, so Tim just smirks and gulps down his own drink— tries his damnedest not to screw his face up as it burns his esophagus, sloshing around dangerously in his stomach. Yeah, his mama _is_ a bitch, and he pleads no contest. Hears her yelling from the kitchen every time his tíos come around, a miniature tornado in her fury, until one of them gets bored of her whining and shoves her into the counter and takes Tim and Curly anyway. "I wanna puke whenever I remember she gave you her dumbass name," Tío Alberto says, raising his beer can. He did two years in Big Mac for dealing and came back with three stick-and-pokes, a smack addiction, and a mouth that won't quit. " _Shepard_ , like that's gonna make y'all pass for gringos. You're Ramirez through and through, and don't forget it."

" _No habléis mierda sobre ella_ ," Curly says with a pout— that goddamn mama's boy, defending her honor when he knows damn well that she ain't got none of it. Curly's Spanish flows from his mouth like a waterfall, effortlessly, while Tim's comes and goes in a halting stammer. Luis and Alberto would've clocked Tim without thinking, for contradicting them like that, but that noxious mix of loose Spanish and wild temper and being their big brother's namesake makes Curly their pet. They won't touch him.

(He refuses to feel guilty about his silence, his complicity. Like that bitch ever defended him when her fuck of the week called him a waste of oxygen, belted him until he bled, kicked him out at night so he could screw her as loud as he pleased. Curly's her baby, the blessing from Mother Mary she wanted, not the back-alley abortion she was too pious and too chickenshit to get. He can have her.)

"Don't go soft on me, you little _maricón_ ," Tio Luis chides, but he leans over and ruffles Curly's hair as he says it. "Shut up and drink your beer. It's good for you."

Tim thinks that Curly's kind of young to be drinking, catching a glimpse of the kid's flushed cheeks and glazed, dreamy eyes— he's practically falling out of the damn truck every time he takes a sip. Maybe he wouldn't worry if Curly were any smarter, but he's a dumbass, all big mouth and no pause button like Alberto, and he doesn't particularly want to see alcohol added to that mess. Or maybe he's just jealous that there's nothing he doesn't have to share with his little brother— probably the second one. Shit, he was ten or eleven the first time he discovered that Ma's 'medicinal' bottles of whiskey could soften the sharp edges of his life. Like he has the right to scold.

"How's your outfit goin', Timmy?" Tío Luis asks. He hates the smirk on his face when he says the word 'outfit', reminding him that no matter what he does with his gang, it'll always be a pale imitation of his father's. Your little outfit, you and a few other rejects you found doing graffitti and smoking in the school bathroom, getting your kicks from dealing ten bucks' worth of weed and fighting a few candy-ass Soc gangs. You think that's as good as what your daddy did?

(They had to close the casket at his daddy's funeral, but nobody talks about that.)

"Great," he says, tilting his head back— the world tilts with him, the sun forming bright yellow patterns behind his eyelids. "We pounded some punks from Brumly for hornin' in on our territory last week. Man, I hate those guys."

"You let Carlos in yet?"

"I got no time to babysit his ass," Tim drawls, trying to put in nonchalance and hide his irritation. "Gang ain't a daycare service."

Curly punches him in the arm with all of his twelve-year-old strength, the alcohol making him bold— Tim hits him back, but he pulls it at the last second. Something always makes him pull it. "Kid's gonna give you a run for your money soon enough," Tío Alberto says, his laugh a short bark. "Bet that's why you keep him out."

"Damn, Timmy, when you was his age, we had you doin' all kinds of crazy shit," Tío Luis says as Tim's cheeks light up, and not from the booze. Alberto would wipe him out, but goddamn, is he tempted to take a swing. "Remember that _pendejo_ who wouldn't pay up what he owed us from poker? The one who pissed himself when you pulled a blade on him? Fun times."

Vividly. He also remembers running off to a nearby alley and hurling his guts out, after, the nights he woke up choking on his own screams. Made him into a man, though, even if it was too damn soon. "We'll see," Tim says, playing it cool, hating the hungry way Curly looks at him. "Maybe he can tag along sometime, if he keeps it zipped."

"Good man," Tío Luis says, but it's Curly's shoulders he slings an arm around, sloppily pulling him closer. "Can't believe you're both so grown-up now. Goddamn. You've got some real fuckin' potential, you know?"

And that's why he secretly loves these hot summer afternoons, even though his uncles are kind of assholes and obviously prefer his brother. Anything to get away from whatever stepdad the cat dragged in, and driving around the country backroads with them, the radio blaring Perez Prado and Tito Puente, Tio Luis taking sips of whiskey and pounding the accelerator until they all have whiplash— he can think of worse ways to spend a Saturday.

He'll take their half-assed scraps of affection and make them proud. It's the closest he'll ever get to having a father again.


End file.
